


Something Worth Fighting About

by Kacka



Series: Kacka Does a Thing [7]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - X-Men Fusion, F/M, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9417872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: To say Bellamy hates Clarke Griffin is a pretty strong statement, but not necessarily an inaccurate one. She seems to keep herself separate from everyone else at the X-Mansion, and he's just not a fan of people who think they're too good for everyone else.So of course he gets paired with her for a group project.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for anonymous, thanks for the prompt and i hope you love it! 
> 
> on a more serious note, there is a pretty mild shooting allusion/aftermath scene, in case that's a trigger for anyone. there's no violence in the fic, and because i'm me and i'm fluffy, nobody gets seriously hurt, but it is a thing. also s/o to my brother who helped me with details because he is a big ol’ nerd.

“Okay, let’s get this part out of the way.”

Bellamy glances up, one eyebrow raised. Clarke Griffin always kind of looks like she’s ready for a fight, but she’s _especially_ on guard right now. Possibly because she just sat down across from him in the library, and he’s not particularly well known for his approachability.

Plus, he hasn’t been very subtle about hating her, so there’s that.

“Which part would that be?” He says, after a moment of consideration. Whatever this is, getting it over with sounds good. He’s admittedly a little lost.

“The part where you’re shocked and outraged that Kane paired us up for this Mutants in the News project.”

Bellamy blinks at her, then mutters a curse under his breath and sits up straighter.

“He paired me with _you_?”

Clarke’s sigh is irritated. “I thought we agreed we’d done that part already.”

“Why the-- Why would he do that?”

“He said he wanted us to learn to work together.” She lifts her chin as if he’s issued her a challenge. “Apparently he thinks we’ve both got ‘leadership potential,’ and that we should ‘resolve our differences.’”

Bellamy snorts, both at the air quotes, which sound _just like_ Kane, and at the thought of being able to resolve his differences with Clarke. They couldn’t _be_ more different.

She’s the daughter of a Senator, with enough money and opportunities for a bright future.

He’s a kid from the opposite end of the socioeconomic scale, who is incredibly lucky that somewhere along the line his genes stumbled into a wrong turn. That luck is all that stands between his life now-- in the X-Mansion, getting a good education in addition to regular meals and a place in the world-- and the much worse version he could have had if he weren’t a mutant.

Even if he could disregard her status (it isn’t something that comes between him and Miller, after all), he can’t disregard her parentage. Senator Griffin is infamous for her support of the Mutant Registration Act, and it wasn’t long after she’d announced it that Clarke had shown up at Xavier’s School for Higher Education.

It’s hard for Bellamy not to connect the two events in his mind. While he’s usually not swayed by gossip, the theories floating around that she was there to spy for her mother, to be Abby Griffin’s eyes and ears on the mutant community she can’t get her hands on quite yet, seemed all too plausible.

Even if Clarke had tried to integrate herself with the other students, if she’d made friends, become one of them, he’s _still_ not sure he wouldn’t consider her an extension of her mother.

As it is, she’s set herself apart from the rest of them. Until today, he’d hardly spoken two words to her. Aloof, he’d call it. Stuck-up, maybe. Seemingly uninterested in this place that took him and Octavia in and gave them a chance at a better life.

It’s fine; he’s not bitter.

He can’t imagine where to begin resolving all the differences between them. It just doesn’t seem possible.

“Kane should dream smaller,” he says. The line of her mouth tightens, her expression closing off, growing more distant.

“Kane can dream however he wants. Doesn’t change reality.”

Her tone is frosty like it wasn’t before, underlining his point. He doesn’t know how to do the cold anger thing; all his anger and bitterness is electric, racing through his veins (not literally, though there is a kid like that a couple of years behind them), spurring him into motion and setting everything he touches ablaze (again, figuratively). It crackles beneath his skin now, and he itches to snap at her, to try to get a rise out of her, to see just how thick her shell is, but he holds it back.

“So how do I make you go away?” He sighs, already exhausted from the effort this conversation is requiring of him.

Her nostrils flare but she doesn’t fire back a retort. Instead, all she says is, “We’re supposed to pick from a list of mutant-related news stories and follow it through the semester.”

She slides a sheaf of paper across the table to him and he glances down, not really seeing it. First he has to work with her, now he finds it’s for a full semester. This just gets worse and worse.

“You have a preference, Princess?”

“The Mutant Registration Act.”

He can’t help it. His eyes flick to hers, eyebrows lifting even further than when he found her sitting there in the first place. She’s got a determined expression on her face, not atypically, and her arms crossed over her chest.

“The Mutant Registration Act,” he repeats.

“I figure we both already know a lot about it. We’re both already keeping tabs on it.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

A saccharine smile crosses over her face. “Scared of a little friendly debate, Blake?”

His eyes narrow. “Not even a little.”

“Good.” She snatches her page back, as if the longer he holds it, the more contaminated it might become, and slides it back into a folder. “We’ll both do the research, and we can get together once a week? Once every two weeks? To work on the presentation.”

“Once a week,” he says begrudgingly. The rubric for the project looked pretty involved, and he needs to know sooner rather than later if she’s not going to be pulling her weight. Or if they can’t agree and he needs to do his own.

She just nods and pulls out a day planner, full of sticky notes and seemingly color-coordinated highlighting.

“What days work best for you?” She asks as she flips through the pages.

And maybe he’s a dick, but he sees the chunk of afternoon blocked off in pink each week, with only the inscription ‘Skype,’ and says, “Fridays.”

She blinks at him. “Fridays?”

“Yeah. I’m free Friday afternoons. That a problem?”

For a split second, it seems like she’s going to protest, but she only shakes her head and reaches down to draw a line through her carefully-penned plans.

“No,” she says through gritted teeth. “Not at all.”

“Great. I look forward to working with you, Princess.”

And with that, he saunters away with a grin on his face that’s more smug than strictly necessary, but he can’t help it. He won this round.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy Blake: 1

Clarke Griffin: 0

 

* * *

 

Miller gives him an unimpressed look, which is pretty much what Bellamy expected from his best friend.

“Dude.”

“What?” He smashes the buttons on the controller with more force than usual. He might have some aggression he wants to get out before his first meeting with Clarke tomorrow. Digging into mutant registration over the past week has only served to make him angrier and more bitter, two things he thought were impossible.

“I thought you were going to be Mr. Laid-Back-Guy this year.”

“That’s Mr. Guy to you.” He pauses the game and rubs a hand over his face. “You didn’t really believe that was going to work, did you? Even without Clarke Griffin suddenly in the equation.”

“And that’s another thing. Why do you say her full name like that every time? It’s weird. Just call her Clarke.”

“Then she might get to thinking we’re friends.”

Miller rolls his eyes. “Can’t have that. You’ve already got two whole friends, you’re full up. No matter how cool she actually might be.”

“She thinks she’s above everyone else. That makes her not cool by default.”

“You don’t know she thinks that.”

“Why else would she have asked for private lessons instead of taking power training with the rest of us? Why else would she ask for a private room? Why doesn’t she have any friends, if she’s so cool?”

“Yeah, can’t possibly be judgmental assholes around here,” Miller mutters, starting the game up again.

It’s some fighting game that Monty has been manipulating in his free time to give the regular human avatars mutant powers. Only, he hasn’t worked out all the glitches yet, so Bellamy’s character who can now fly often ends up offscreen somewhere with no method of finding his way back.

“Maybe she’s like the human torch,” Miller suggests after a moment. Bellamy had almost forgotten what they were talking about. “Maybe every time she catches fire, her clothes burn off. I could see wanting to not be naked in front of a bunch of jackasses who hate me three times a week.”

“You be her friend then,” Bellamy grumbles, pushing buttons at random and hoping his character will reappear. So far, no luck.

“I’m working on it,” he says easily. “We talk sometimes in the hall and stuff. She said she’d give me her bio notes if I help her get through Hamlet.”

He drops his controller to stare at his friend. “No shit?”

“None so far.” Miller smirks. “You should really be taking Raven’s word for it instead of mine. She knows Clarke better than I do.”

“Reyes?”

“No, the other Raven we’re friends with.”

“But Raven is prickly.”

“So is Clarke,” Miller points out. “All I’m saying is, you clearly don’t know enough about this girl to know you hate her.”

“That’s never stopped me before.”

His character reappears then, and seeking distraction, he hits the controller so hard he’s afraid it might break. He should be glad for the possibility that Clarke Griffin-- Clarke-- isn’t the bigoted, above-it-all asshole he’s made her out to be in his mind. His grade does depend on his ability to work with her, after all.

One way or the other, he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

 

* * *

 

Continuing in the vein of doing things he doesn’t expect, she shows up to their meeting with a stack of printouts thicker than his textbook, littered with sticky notes just as her planner was. He can’t help but gape.

“What?” She says, already defensive.

“Nothing.”

She glares as she sits and stares him down with her arms crossed, clearly not letting it go that easily.

“You’re just way more prepared than I thought you’d be.”

“Turns out you don’t actually know me.” She flips open one of the folders and takes a deep breath. “This is everything I’ve been collecting about it since-- Well, since it was proposed.”

“Why?”

She gives him a wry smile that looks more like a grimace but could be considered progress. “Know your enemy, right?”

He grabs a stapled packet and flips through it, awed at the thoroughness of her research. They could still end up not agreeing, but it looks like she’s prepared to pull her weight, which is… something.

“This is all stuff on your mom,” he says, frowning as he leafs through the rest of the stack.

“Like I said.”

“You think your mom is the enemy?”

She pauses in what she’s doing, her face expressionless as she looks up at him. “I’m a mutant.”

“Yeah, but--”

“She wants to pass legislation that would make it easier and more permissible for people to discriminate against me.”

“I know--”

“Not to mention what the government might do if they think we might be of use to them. Or the way it normalizes thinking of mutants as ‘other,’ and dangerous.”

“I mean, obviously--”

“I don’t get the urge to say ‘duh’ very often, but you’re really giving me an opening here, Bellamy. I love my mother, but I don’t trust her to do right by us.” With that, she drops her gaze to her open notebook, scrawling illegibly across the page.

He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say. She seems to consider herself one of the group in a way he didn’t think she wanted to be, seems to have a pretty reasonable take on the situation that he didn’t expect. It’s a lot to process.

“Alright then,” he says under his breath, opening his own notebook. “Where do we start?”

Her cheeks are pink and she seems to be fighting some expression or other as she slides him a stack of papers.

“I think we have to start with my mom.”

They fall easily into silent work, every so often passing documents and articles the other needs, but Bellamy has trouble giving one hundred percent of his attention to the task at hand. Instead, he puzzles over the enigma that is Clarke Grif-- Clarke-- and wonders exactly why he feels like she’ll be the one walking away from today victorious.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy Blake: 1

Clarke Griffin: 1

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, he’s surprised by how little she offers of herself.

She seems to have a pretty good handle on who _he_ is, mentioning that she saw Octavia in the halls, giving him the parts of the work he’s best at and keeping the parts he doesn’t like as much for herself, even preemptively canceling one Friday when he’s got a test the following Monday. In a class she isn’t even _in_.

But if she’s got friends, she doesn’t mention them. If she’s bogged down with other classwork, it doesn’t appear to intrude on their project time. The only real thing he knows about her is that she might be more opposed to mutant registration than he is, and that’s saying something.

For all they’ve talked about her mom’s career, he has no idea what their personal relationship is like (which is understandable, given that he and Clarke aren’t close). He also has no idea what she does for fun, or even what her powers are.

Which is part of why he’s surprised when she shows up to his hand-to-hand combat class about halfway through the semester.

It’s something he’s started offering in the afternoons for the kids who want to know it-- kids who have been bullied all their lives and want to be able to defend themselves, kids who dream of joining the X-Men when they graduate, kids whose abilities aren’t much good in a fight, kids with too much aggression and not enough outlets. Octavia should fall into that last category, but she refuses to learn from her brother, so Lincoln gives her lessons instead.

She approaches him tentatively when she comes in, as if surprised to see him there.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound friendly and not accusatory when he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Knitting.”

A grin flashes across his face, surprising both of them. “I guess this is one of those moments when you want to say 'duh' again.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, trying a smile of her own. “It really is.”

She takes the class incredibly seriously, to his utter unsurprise, tracking his movements with alert eyes and copying them to the letter. When he pairs them up to try certain moves with and on each other, she partners with a boy in Octavia’s class who is one of Bellamy’s regulars, and takes it with good grace when he offers tips to correct her form.

“Yeah, hold your core tighter on this one,” Bellamy tells her, his hand twitching as if to reach out and show her which muscles are her core. It’s what he’d do for a lot of his students, but he can’t quite bring himself to do it to Clarke. “Lift your arm a little higher-- Uh-huh, like that. Good.”

The two of them execute the move and she’s so triumphant when it works that she smiles a real smile at Bellamy, a slight flush to her cheeks. “I did it.”

“Nice.” He smiles back. Then, raising his voice so the rest of the group can hear, he says, “Keep practicing this stance for next week and I’ll show you something else you can do with it. Get your roommate or a friend to check and make sure your form is right. See you guys later.”

When he glances back at Clarke, she’s frowning, and it feels like they took two steps backward when he wasn't looking.

“What’s up?” He prods. She grows more uncomfortable under his attention.

“Nothing. Really. It’s just-- I don't have a roommate.”

“Oh, right.” Her eyes dart to his face when he says that and he hopes it didn’t sound _too_ annoyed. “So ask a friend.”

“Don’t have a lot of those either. That’s pretty much _why_ I don’t have a roommate.”

Her tone is clipped, maybe even a little hurt. He carefully does not wince, just shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Then ask me Friday. I don’t mind; I even know what I’m looking for and everything.”

She looks at him for a long time, and for lack of anything else to do, he looks right back. She must either find the answer she’s searching for or give up, because she relents after a minute and shakes her head, turning to the door.

“Maybe I will,” she says, her voice unreadable. “See you Friday, Bellamy.”

“See you around, Clarke.”

 

* * *

 

He thinks he won that one (though he can’t be sure), but either way, it feels like a victory of a different kind.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy: 2

Clarke: 1

 

* * *

 

He and Miller are tossing a frisbee by the lake that weekend-- the first truly beautiful day of the year-- when he goes, “Hey, there’s your new BFF.”

"You wish." Bellamy follows his line of sight to find Clarke, who clearly stopped in the middle of a run, one earbud dangling as she pauses by the tree where Raven, Lincoln, and Monty are sitting to chat with them.

“Huh,” he says, already starting toward them. He’s never seen her interact with anyone else before. It’s sure to be an enlightening experience.

“--have to be deranged to try that,” she’s saying when he gets within earshot. Her hair is pulled back but tiny ringlets have sprung free, framing her face perfectly. She’s a little sweaty, but she’s smiling openly at his friends, her shoulders loose like they never are with him, and it all makes her look more like a real person than he’s ever seen.

“Who’s deranged?” Miller asks.

Her smile dims as soon as she makes eye contact with Bellamy, and it makes his stomach churn. He respects and even likes Clarke Griffin a lot more now than he did a month ago, and he feels a little guilty that his presence is enough to ruin what appeared to be a good time. She doesn’t seem to have many of those in the first place.

“Me, if I let Monty talk me into going running with him.”

“Yeah, I fell for that once,” Miller snorts, dropping down next to Monty and leaning toward him fondly. “I was so sure I could impress him with my athleticism.”

“Doesn’t help much against super speed.”

“No, although I was still very impressed,” Monty says with a smirk. “But I’ve been working on control lately, and that includes limiting my miles per second. Seriously, if you ever want a running buddy, I think I can try to keep-- down.”

Clarke laughs, the sound so bright and clear it honestly makes Bellamy jump. Raven shoots him her ‘you’re an idiot’ look, which is fair.

“I’ll let you know,” she promises, moving as if to put one of her earbuds back. “See you guys around.”

“Hey wait,” Bellamy says quickly, flushing a little when all eyes snap to his, Clarke’s piercingly blue ones included. “We were gonna go into town tonight for dinner. You want to join?”

She pauses, lips parted as if to ask a question, then presses them together in a facsimile of a smile. “Thanks for the offer, but I’d have to shower--”

“So does Bellamy or we won’t let him walk with us,” Lincoln puts in, and Clarke’s smile is a lot more natural now.

“If you’re sure you guys don’t mind…”

“You’ve got to come with us,” Raven says, decisive as ever. “You can’t leave me alone with all these nut jobs.”

“Which one of us almost fell off a roof last time?” Miller says pointedly.

“There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Just because you’re invincible doesn’t mean--”

“Really,” Bellamy says in a low voice as his friends devolve into the usual arguments, stepping closer to Clarke. “You should come. If you want.”

She holds his gaze for a long moment, as if searching for an ulterior motive, and he can almost see the exact moment she makes her mind up.

“Okay,” she says, equally soft.

“Out front, seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.” She visibly shakes herself and steps away, turning to smile at his friends. “See you guys tonight,” she says, and jogs away.

He can feel his friends eyeing him as he flops down on the grass, but he closes his eyes and enjoys the warm spring day.

He isn’t sure why he made the offer, except that he’s pretty sure his hatred of her was unfounded and he’s been unnecessarily making her life suck a little more for the past few years. He’d like to make it right, if he can.

“So I guess we’re going to dinner,” Raven says, inevitably the first to lose patience.

“Looks like it.”

“Were you going to tell the rest of us?” Monty wonders. “None of us are telepathic, you know.”

“I think it’s nice of you to involve her.”

“Thanks, Lincoln. Knew I could count on you.”

“Of course, I think it’s also lucky that none of us had any real plans tonight.”

“I take it back,” he sighs. “You’re all the worst.”

“Old news,” says Miller. Bellamy feels grass fall on his face, presumably thrown at him by one of his asshole friends. “You know you love us.”

“Hell if I know why, though.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke slots into the group naturally, falling into step with Raven and Lincoln (at the front of the group, Raven’s speed setting the pace for the rest of them) as they start the trek into town.

Bellamy tries not to be so aware of her all the time, tries not to eavesdrop on her conversations (even as curious as he is about her), tries not to look at her more than a couple of times a minute. He thinks he does a passable job.

Somehow, when they get to the mall, he and Clarke end up in line together for gyros while everyone else flocks to the sesame chicken or pizza, and it’s honestly a little bit awkward.

The silences that fall between them while they’re working aren’t uncomfortable, don’t feel like they need filling when there are things to be done. This is a different kind of silence, and he’s relieved when she finds a way to break it.

“How’s Octavia doing?”

“Oh man, she’s such a menace,” he says instantly, surprising a laugh out of her. “Like, I get that we’re here to learn to use our abilities and shit, but there are some lines we’re not supposed to cross, you know? I mean, did you hear about the cars?”

“I think I heard something to do with Professor Sinclair?”

“She put his face on to get past the biometrics so she could take them on a joyride. She’s _fourteen_. She doesn’t even know how to drive!”

“I had no idea shapeshifting was that accurate,” Clarke says thoughtfully. “To get past fingerprinting and retinal scans?”

“Yeah, she’s getting really good. Still can’t do her full body all at the same time, but it’s pretty impressive. When she’s not using her abilities for--”

“Shenanigans?”

“I was going to go with pranks, but your word is better.” They take a step forward and Clarke cocks her head to one side.

“I didn’t go here when we were her age, but are you honestly telling me you never acted up like that?”

“A little,” he admits, dropping his eyes to the floor. “The nature of my ability is pretty much that I could have gotten away with basically anything, but I was still-- It seemed to good to be true, you know? The whole secret school for people like me. I worried too much about getting kicked out to get up to much trouble.”

Clarke is quiet for a moment. Long enough he almost starts to regret sharing so much when she’s never given any indication she wants to reciprocate.

“The nature of your ability?” She finally asks, and he gets that sick-to-his-stomach feeling again. This time it’s less to do with her, and more to do with the fact that she doesn’t already _know_. He hates telling people.

“Oh.” He scratches the back of his head. “I’m, uh, convincing.”

“Convincing.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Sometimes I can do this voice that makes people do what I tell them. Or ask them.”

“Like let you get away with stuff,” she says slowly. She doesn’t sound wary or offended, like some people do.

“Right. I don’t use it much though,” he hastens to add. “Only in practice these days. I’ve never used it on you.”

“I didn’t think you had,” she says, and her tone is still annoyingly enigmatic. Wondering what she’s thinking is pretty par for the course these days, but it nags at him more than usual as they get their food and wait for the others.

“How do you--” She starts, after they’ve grabbed a table. “What do you use them for, if not getting away with stuff?”

“Well that’s the dilemma. The battle room, it’s all virtual. The opponents the simulator provides don’t have minds, so my powers don’t work on them. Most of my training is more hand-to-hand fighting-- like what I was teaching in class the other day-- plus strategy, fighting techniques, that kind of stuff. Every now and then they’ll set us up to spar against each other, and it’s hard not to feel weird about using my powers.” He smirks. “Unless it’s on Murphy. Then I don’t mind so much.”

She laughs softly. “I probably wouldn’t either.”

And it’s the opening he’s been waiting weeks for, but he still feels intrusive asking, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s your superpower?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it a superpower.” She pokes at her food with a plastic fork, contemplative. “I don’t know exactly how to describe it, but it’s almost like I can feel exactly how someone’s body functions. If you got a paper cut right now, I could feel where the cells are torn apart and I could fix them. A stab wound or a broken bone or illness, that’s harder, but I’ve been studying anatomy and physiology and it helps to be able to understand what needs fixing instead of going on instinct.”

“But you could treat that stuff?”

“Given enough time and preparation,” she nods. “The more I do it, the easier it is to replicate, but I hid my mutation for a long time. From everyone, but especially my mom. I didn’t really get what was happening, and I grew up around people who used ‘mutant’ like a bad word. So I’m pretty behind in learning how to use my powers.”

“Your mom used to be a surgeon, right? Seems like she should approve of what you can do.”

“You’d think,” Clarke says, smiling wryly. “But I also want to learn to do the opposite. To use my powers as a weapon.”

“You want to join the X-Men?” He teases, and she makes a face.

“No spandex, please. But I wouldn’t mind doing what they do. It seems pretty important.” She pauses. “I know that there are mutants out there who want to do genuinely terrible stuff with their powers, and I don’t think they should get away with it. I don’t think my mom’s answer is the right one, but-- I want to help if I can.”

For two people who barely qualify as acquaintances, it’s some pretty serious stuff they’re covering. He doesn’t really do the whole ‘baring your soul’ thing with any of his friends; they get him on some level, and they know by intuition and vague allusion how conflicted he is about what he can do, but there’s a lot they leave unspoken. It’s just how they are.

Whatever this is with Clarke, it’s different. Weightier. Brushing it off with a joke-- his go-to move-- doesn’t sit right with him, but he doesn’t really know what else to say.

So he swallows and offers a small smile, saying, “I can relate,” and hoping that conveys enough. She nods once and returns the tentative expression, her gaze startlingly unguarded.

“I thought you might.”

“That took _forever_.” Raven plops herself down beside Clarke before either of them can say anything else, a blessed distraction.

“Should’ve gotten a gyro,” he says, taking a smug bite.

“Seriously, though. If my stomach wasn’t so set on pepperoni, I would have given up like ten minutes ago.”

“Where’s everybody else?” Clarke asks, looking around.

“They were behind me in line because ladies first.” Bellamy snorts and she glares at him. “What? I’m a lady.”

“They let you go first because hangry Raven is the scariest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” he shoots back.

“Okay, true.” She smirks. “I love being so badass that people fear me. It’s one of my favorite things about myself.”

“Hear, hear,” Clarke says with a smile, and they tap their paper cups together.

“So what did we miss while we were growing old in the pizza line?” Monty asks, sliding in next to Bellamy. He and Clarke exchange a look and a shrug.

“Nothing important,” she lies, her private smile making him feel inexplicably warm all over.

“The X-Men need better uniforms,” Bellamy adds, and Monty shudders.

“Yellow is a hard color to pull off.”

They get going on the pros and cons of camouflage, him and Clarke wading into the fray every now and then to spur them on, and it’s light, fun, easy. And every time his eye catches on her, he’s strangely relieved to find that she never stopped smiling.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy: ???

Clarke: ???

 

* * *

 

The attack happens on a Friday afternoon, so of course it finds Bellamy and Clarke in the library. And of course, being a Friday afternoon, they’re the only ones there.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Bellamy asks, distracted by the lofty language in the document he’s reading. What’s the point in writing things when nobody can understand them?

“I thought I heard something.”

He looks up at this, half-smiling. “Smelt it, dealt it.”

“Ew.” She scrunches her nose at him. “Are you twelve?”

His smile is becoming a full-blown grin, a retort on the tip of his tongue, when they hear it: gunshots in the hallway. Her eyes grow wide with dread, or maybe horror (maybe both), and he knows his own expression is equally serious.

He’s on his feet and moving toward the source of the noise before he even really registers that she’s right by his side.

It’s pretty much his worst nightmare, except that Octavia isn’t there. Although that means he can’t assess her condition for himself, which is a nightmare of a different kind.

A couple of kids are cowering in a doorway, one of them-- metal scales protruding from her body like armor-- crying even as she shields the other. They can’t be more than twelve themselves.

He follows the girl’s line of sight to where the intruder is bleeding out on the floor. Bellamy would bet anything it was his own bullet ricocheting that’s killing him, and the thought of anyone shooting at those little girls makes him see red. It's Clarke's voice that keeps him grounded in the moment.

“You get them,” she murmurs, squeezing his shoulder as she passes. “I’ll put him out of his misery.”

Bellamy isn’t sure the gunman deserves that, but he’s not about to argue in front of these already traumatized kids. He can do the big brother protector thing. He’s got that part _down_.

“Hey, it’s okay,” He says softly, placing his hands on the crying girl’s shoulders. “Are you guys alright? You’re not hurt?”

“We’re fine,” the non-scaly girl says, tugging her friend along with her as Bellamy leads them away from the dying man. “She didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

He has no clue what to say, how to tell her it’s okay. She killed someone, and she’ll always have to live with that. “What are your names?”

“I’m Fox,” the not-crying one says. “This is Mel.”

“I’m Bellamy, and that’s Clarke. We’ve got you guys now. You’re safe, okay?” He casts a look back over his shoulder at Clarke, who is hurrying to catch up with them.

“What’s the plan?” She asks, tone hushed. He peers around the corner to make sure the hall is clear before pulling all the girls after him.

“Get to Miller and Monty if we can,” he decides. Monty is fast and Miller can get in and out of rooms like the walls aren’t even there. They can help get the kids to safety while Bellamy--

While Bellamy does what? Goes and gets the professors? They’re mostly out of the mansion, he realizes with a sharp twist of shock. Dealing with some big bad in Argentina. This is why you don’t make your staff ninety percent X-Men. Getting rid of these guys will probably be up to the students.

“You need to tell them to stop,” Clarke says, chewing on her lip nervously. “They have to listen to you, right?”

“They don’t get much of a choice, no.”

“So-- How do we get you where they can all hear you? He didn’t have a radio or anything.”

“There’s a loudspeaker in Kane’s office,” Bellamy recalls. Professor X never needed one, but Kane is no telepath.

He looks down at the girls, who are both listening very intently, then back at Clarke. He hates the idea of splitting up-- that’s always a fatal mistake in movies-- but it might be the best course of action. “Can you get them somewhere safe?”

“I’m coming with you,” she says immediately. “So I guess they are too.”

“I can get us to the safe house,” the Fox volunteers. “I’ve teleported two people there before. We practiced in class. I can do it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“How sure?”

“Like-- Ninety nine percent. Maybe even one hundred.”

“She can do it,” Mel agrees, her voice wobbly, and he doesn’t like it but he releases his hold on them.

“Then go,” Bellamy tells her, and they disappear in an instant.

He exhales, weary, and studies Clarke. She’s wearing her determined expression again, only this time he feels like it’s a shield around both of them. A shield she’s let him behind with her, instead of one between them.

Still, he has to ask.

“You sure about this? It’s pretty reckless. Dangerous. I can go on my own.”

“No way,” she tells him, slipping her hand into his and squeezing once. Under different circumstances, he would be elated. “You won’t be on your own.”

 

* * *

 

In the end, the handful of other shooters-- members of an anti-mutant hate group who have been alluding to such attacks for months-- don’t choose to lay down their weapons so much as Bellamy chooses for them. They even gather on the front steps and wait for the police to arrive as calmly and obediently as if it were their own idea.

It’s a little spooky, honestly. Watching the eerie display makes his skin crawl, and he can’t even imagine what Clarke must be thinking of it. Of him.

But if she’s as appalled and horrified as he is, she gives no indication. When it’s all over, she studies him close, like she’s searching for the places she can fix him, and finding none, she pulls him into a hug.

His arms come around her on instinct, clutching her tighter when he can feel how she’s shaking.

“We’re okay,” he tells her, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

“I know,” she says, her lips brushing against his skin as she speaks. “It’s adrenaline, I think. It’ll wear off.”

“You would know better than I would.” He breathes deeply, all his senses overwhelmed by Clarke. “I’m so fucking glad we didn’t die.”

“Me too,” she laughs. “Did you see me use some of the sick moves you taught me?”

“I did. Did you see me panic when I couldn’t do it right away?”

One of her thumbs rubs back and forth in a manner that’s almost soothing, except it slips under the collar of his shirt and then it’s all he can think about. “I knew you could do it,” is all she says, and that’s nice of her, because he was certain of no such thing.

They stand there for another moment, basking in relief and each other until she says regretfully, “I should go make sure nobody needs my help.”

He steps back but takes her hand again, too keyed up, too anxious to stop reassuring himself they made it through. “I’ll come with you.”

Thankfully, nobody was killed in the attack, and few were seriously injured. Clarke works her way down the halls methodically, and it eases Bellamy’s mind to see how empty the mansion is. That means the emergency protocols were followed, which-- it sucks that they had to be, but even as a chronic worrier, he’s never been more glad for them.

Octavia is the first to throw herself into his arms when they get to the safe house, but by no means the last. All their friends hug both of them, even Murphy offering a quick handshake/hug/back-patting combo that leaves Bellamy a little disconcerted.

“I hear you’re a big damn hero,” Miller says, the tightness of his grasp betraying precisely how worried he was.

“Bring on the yellow spandex,” Bellamy agrees. “I’m glad you guys are okay.”

“Same.” Miller pulls back, only to drag Clarke in for a big bear hug. She seems surprised at first but softens into it, an awed smile on her face. When Miller tells her he’s glad she’s okay too, she has to press her lips together to rein in her emotion, and Bellamy flashes back to the words she threw at him, that bitter proclamation that she didn't have many friends.

It’s not true anymore.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy and Clarke: 1

Bad guys: 0

 

* * *

 

“Seems weird to work on our project here now,” Bellamy says the next Friday, sliding in across from her. She beams at him, and it’s basically the best thing ever.

It's also the best thing ever that she's still  _here_. A lot of parents wanted to pull their children out, convinced they weren't safe. Convinced that such a big group of mutants all in one place means a target on their kid's back. He doesn't know if they're right or wrong, but he knows he'd rather stay among his people and learn to fight than take his chances in the terrifying and unwelcoming world outside the X-Mansion's walls. Not that his mom cared enough to pull either of them out.

He was worried Clarke's mom would, but she's long since stopped letting her mother make those decisions. Clarke is even hopeful that the attack will knock some sense into the Senator when it comes to what kind of legislation is needed to protect whom, though Bellamy isn't sure he's quite that optimistic.

The school is a little emptier, the kids a little bit shaken, but Bellamy thinks they're going to be okay. Somehow.

“I know what you mean," Clarke says, looking around at the otherwise empty library. "Do we just pretend it's business as usual? I'm definitely more on edge than usual.”

“And that’s really saying something.” She sticks her tongue out and he grins, reaching across the table and swiping the book she’s reading. “Come on.”

“That’s mine,” she says halfheartedly, already gathering her things. “Where are we going?”

“Lake. It’s nice out, and I think we earned a break from schoolwork. It is Friday, after all.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

She loops her arm through his, and it’s not the easiest way to walk, but he’s not going to tell her to stop standing so close to him pretty much ever.

“It's my fault,” he admits readily. “I saw in your planner that you had Skype plans on Fridays and I was feeling extra petty due to the whole forced-partners thing.”

“Yeah, Wells was not happy about having to reschedule our standing hang-out time.”

This gives Bellamy pause, Clarke steering them off the path and into the grass.

“Wells?”

“Yep.”

“Wells Jaha?”

“The one and only.” She cocks her head. “I assume. I guess there could be others.”

“Wells Jaha, President Jaha’s son?”

“ _Yes_.” She must decide one spot or the other is adequate, because she drops down and tugs him to sit next to her, taking her things out of his hands so she can lace his fingers with her own. “Now you feel a little weird about your pettiness, don’t you?”

“Six degrees of screwing with people,” he says absently, too preoccupied with the way her other hand is tracing his knuckles to really be giving the President’s son much mind.

"So," she drawls, looking around. There are other students out enjoying the weather, but nobody is paying them much attention. "Did you have something in mind instead of studying?"

She smiles up at him, her face so open and content that he can't stand it anymore. He can't  _not_ kiss her. She moves to meet him halfway and her hair is soft as it tangles in his fingers, her lips softer, eager against his.

When she pulls back, it's only so she can lay them back on the grass, her head pillowed on his stomach, his fingers still twined with hers. The sunlight is warm on his face, he's got a pretty girl beside him, and she seems to be _happy_ there, which is a minor miracle in and of itself.

They're definitely going to be okay.

"Just this," he says, smiling when she raises his hand to her lips, brushing a kiss across his knuckles.

"This sounds pretty good to me."


End file.
